


Sunshine Kid

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: But is he alone in the flat?, Gratuitous descriptions of bath products and T. Rex records, He's alone in the flat, Introducing: the luxurious wank, Okay fine I'm getting out of the tags now bye, Other, Sorry Not Sorry, Sunshine Kid basks in the sunshine, The Vince Noir specialty, Those platform boots from the Crack Fox are involved too, Vince Noir perfects the art of self care, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: "Today, with the sunlight warming him, he feels like a long, slow luxury wank, teasing out all the little noises he can get himself to make."Introducing the luxurious wank, starring Vince Noir, his self-care routine, a patch of sunshine, and those good, good platform boots from the Strange Tale of the Crack Fox.
Relationships: Vince Noir/Vince Noir
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	Sunshine Kid

**Author's Note:**

> Another gift from the universe fic that woke me up this morning. Universe said, "Hey, Katey, where's the 'Vince has a luxurious wank wearing platform boots' fic?" And I wept and said, "Let me get gdocs open," and screamed about it to the wonderful [MamaZoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaZoom/pseuds/MamaZoom) and edited it and. Here's the result.

Sometimes, when Vince is alone in the flat, he likes to have a wank. Not a cheeky wank in the shower, or a standard, dead boring wank on the sofa, or a cozy wank after waking up from a dreamless sleep, his limbs heavy and his hand warm around his cock. When everyone's out for the afternoon, Vince likes to have a luxurious wank. A wank that Oscar Wilde would write poetry about; one that would give Bowie enough material for two albums and a Stooges single and Andy Warhol reels of film for an art installation. A luxurious wank for a luxurious man.

When Vince wakes up around noon on Saturday, it's to Naboo scowling at Bollo to get the hoover out because the carpet's a right disaster and they won't be flying anywhere, not in this state, and certainly not to Saboo and Tony Harrison's barbeque, until it's been thoroughly cleaned. He knows Howard will be out around 3 for several hours of hot, sweaty Jazzercise in the Park, and then he'll be all alone in the flat. Perfect. He smiles to himself as he falls back to sleep. No need to set an alarm; he can wake himself up when he wants to as easily as he can drift off. (He just can't let on about that bit to Howard.)

When he wakes again, the flat is quiet, aside from the rustling noise his sheets make as he stretches slowly. Vince has a nighttime moisturizing routine (only 34 brief steps), a weekly exfoliation routine (27 when his skin is feeling slightly dry, 21 when it's not), and a deep conditioning routine for his hair (just the one extra product, after the usual 13 steps). It's the least he can do to keep up the mystique, to solidify his various titles: Vince Noir, rock 'n' roll star. Prince of Camden. The Shoreditch Vampire. Darling of Cheekbone and Goth Weekly and all the clubs that come and go and change names like loose feathers drifting off a boa in a wind tunnel.

So when he gets the chance for a luxury wank, he likes to have a break from regimen. A chance to do something just for him. A chance to stretch his imagination as far as he wants. But first, he points his toes and stretches his legs out as far as they can go, considering what he wants out of the afternoon. 

First things first: he feels a little sweaty from his extended snooze, and his hair could do with a wash. He slips out of bed and pads down the hall to the loo, plugging the tub and turning the tap on full blast. He strips out of his little pink pants, breathing in the rising steam before considering the shelves Howard hung in his insistence on bathtime safety. They're packed full to bursting with products in every size, shape, color, and scent. He has a section specifically for bath oils and salts and bubbles, but they're not calling to him today. 

He sets out his favorite shampoo and conditioner instead, the expensive ones he had to send away for, made by monks sworn to a lifelong vow of silence, and a cube of fancy citrus and watermelon soap swirled with misty blues and purples. He climbs into the water, sighing at the warmth, and leans his head back on the ledge to soak. He drapes a wet flannel over his face and lets his limbs float loosely. He sucks on the corner of the flannel as he steams his pores open, reaching to twist the water off with his foot before he overflows the tub. He giggles, remembering the last time he did, bubbles from the half-opened bottles littering the floor exploding down the hallway, into the flat, and downstairs into the Nabootique. Thus, the shelves and the bathtime safety instructions.

Vince shakes his head fondly, then ducks into the water and scrubs his hair, the scent of melon swirling in the air as he lathers up. He conditions thoroughly, counting out his five minutes to the second, using the time to wash his body before ducking backwards again to rinse himself off. He hops out of the tub and tracks a line of wet footprints across the tile, wrapping his hair up and slinging another towel around his waist. 

He could do a face mask; he could push his cuticles back in preparation to give himself a manicure; he could do with a shave. He swipes the steam off the mirror and reaches for his basket of moisturizers instead, rifling through for his favorite aloe and rosewater cream, dotting it gently under his eyes and down his forehead. He hasn't reached the crucial stage of the luxury wank yet, but he feels like simple preparation is key today. 

He slips into his favorite kimono, sky blue, printed with falling stars, and pads back to his bedroom, settling himself in front of his vanity. The next step in the luxury wank is to flip through the crate of records stashed next to his vanity. He skips past Gary and Bowie and Jagger and Iggy, til he comes to Bolan and _The Slider_. Side two, of course; today, 21:08 feels like the right amount of time for hair and makeup. He likes the thrill of anticipation as the needle hits the groove, the crackle of static before sound beaming a boost of energy into his body. 

He spends more time on his hair than his makeup, singing random snatches into his blow dryer, getting the backcomb just right. He knows he'll crush the structure later on in the sheets, but he doesn't mind. A little black liner and a lashing of mascara and a dot of silver shadow in the corners of each eye completes the look. He doesn't feel like lipgloss today - as much as he likes how it looks for everyday wear, he wants his lips to be comfy, not sticky. A little balm, then, the nice one that smells like kiwi and makes his lips so soft and smooth, and a spritz of clove perfume. 

Vince smiles shyly at himself in the mirror, mouthing the last strains of Main Man to himself before it fades out. It's a good, simple look ( _"are you my main man?"_ ), but he can't resist dipping his fingers into a pot of aloe gel infused with a rainbow of glitter ( _"are ya now?"_ ) and swiping some down his cheeks as the needle hits the runoff matrix. It looks genius, little hexagons and lightning bolts and oblong shapes in a streak below each eye. He beams, an "Alright?" falling from his soft lips. The Vince in the mirror beams back.

He lets the kimono slip off his shoulders as he pads to the closet. This is the most crucial part, the make or break just before the fun begins. The outfit always sets the tone for Vince's luxury wanks; he leaves it for last, letting inspiration spark his mood. Sometimes, he goes elaborate: a zip-through jumpsuit, stacks of belts and scarves and accessories, a feather boa and towering vintage platforms. Sometimes, he goes simple, man about town, out on a Topshop run: his favorite polka dot drainpipes, pointy silver boots, a cutoff tee, a couple silver necklaces to match, and the nice leather cuff he got at Camden Market. Sometimes, he goes for comfort: fuzzy socks, his softest, plainest cotton pants, mismatched pajamas in a moon and star print and an old, threadbare tee he painted long ago, saved from Howard's cleaning rag bag more times than he can count. Those are cozy luxury wanks, lying on a blanket on the wood floor next to his bed, the boards pressing into his shoulders reminding him of the thin sleeping bags and the Zooniverse keeper's hut floor. 

It's the dressing himself up like a life sized doll and then immediately, methodically undressing himself that gets him going, every time. The build of getting himself ready combined with the decadence of crafting the perfect outfit to suit his mood, and immediately removing it and making himself come undone, is key to a successful luxury wank.

Vince bites his lip as he considers his closet, flipping through t shirts and blouses and jackets. He fingers the thick material of a poncho, but shakes his head and flips by. Too hot for what he has in mind; he took long enough getting ready that the rays of afternoon sunshine coming in are slipping across his bed and he wants to bask in their movements like a lazy, purring jungle animal, hand wrapped around his cock, teasing himself and arching his back as he's kissed by the sunshine. Something light and loose then, not too hot, but also something that matches his makeup. He furrows his brow. Some type of lacy beach wrap? Too flimsy. Vest and pants? That would be too plain. He flips past velvety jumpsuits and lace-up drainpipes and waistcoats and fishnet, so much fishnet, until he comes to the last hanger on the bar (orange satin flares, just like Bolan's) and flips past that too.

Vince bites the tip of his finger, eyes darting from his closet to the sun slipping away from his rumpled sheets. It's a ridiculous thought: Vince Noir with nothing to wear for a luxury wank. And then his eyes fall to the closet floor and he grins.Vince has never had a luxury wank in just boots before. 

His eyes dart over black knee high leather platforms with a nearly-six-inch heel. He hasn't worn them in ages; they kill his feet and his ankles, but he hasn't got far to walk, just has to swing his feet up onto his bed once he has them on. His tongue slides out to the corner of his mouth as he grabs them and angles his mirrored closet door toward his bed. Today, he feels extra luxurious; he wants to watch himself from as many angles as possible. The bath, the music, the glitter, the light falling on his bed: today, Vince feels like the Sunshine Kid, and he's going to take full advantage.

He's already hard as he arches his feet into the black leather, pointing his ankles daintily, the sunlight dappling warm across his skin. He zips himself up slowly, savoring the thrilling shivers that run up his spine as the teeth thread themselves together. He waits to look up until he's spread his legs out on the edge of the bed.

The image sends a jolt of pleasure through Vince's nerve endings. The glitter glistening on his face is luminous in the sunlight. The black gloss of the boots sets off the raven's wing sheen of his hair and the dark hair trailing down his tummy and covering the muscle of his thighs. The sunlight spread across the milk-paleness of his skin and the soft, dewy pink of his lips and his flushed cock completes the picture. This might be his most luxurious of luxury wanks yet.

Vince's fingers stray to the zip on his left boot. He breathes in sharply through his nose, fingers brushing glossy leather, and pulls his hand away. Change of plans. He swings his legs up onto the bed, shuffling his feet toward the slats of his headboard. He slides his booted feet up past the pillows, hooking his soles over the top bar of his headboard. This is genius, he thinks, his cock twitching against his tummy in excitement. He can rest the soles of his boots on the wall and headboard so his legs don't get tired. They're out of the sun so he won't get too hot. And he can turn his head to take in the view from his closet door. Definitely his most luxurious wank yet.

Vince closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the warm weight of the sun on his chest and stomach before sliding his hand slowly down to wrap around his cock. He arches his back slightly as he makes contact, a gentle sigh dropping from his lips. 

Today, with the sunlight warming him, he feels like a long, slow luxury wank, teasing out all the little noises he can get himself to make. 

He gets off on sound almost as much as he does on sight, taking full advantage of his empty flat days to pull every type of noise out of his throat, from mewling whimpers to harsh, ragged pants to broken, desperate shouts. Sometimes, he gets himself so worked up, it's a stream of loud, wordless noise over the tidal rush of blood in his ears. Other times, it's one word (one name, really), repeated over and over again, his pleasure layering itself to a sharp, narrow point before he comes explosively, his entire body shaking.

But today, he wants it slow and long and gorgeous in the sunlight, the glitter on his cheeks sending beams of rainbows down his chest. He slides his heel into the wall as he slowly starts to wank, his hand gliding over his cock. He listens to the sound of skin on skin, his rhythm tight but loose, and gives himself an encouraging moan, not loud enough to cover up the slick sounds just yet. He likes hearing those, too.

He's soaking up the sun, his pale body golden where it plays across his skin. It feels so ridiculously luxurious that Vince grins, as warm and glowing inside as he is on the outside, drawing slow circles around the head of his cock with his thumb, playing with his slit as he slips a finger into his mouth to suck slowly. His skin tingles when he speeds up the pace of his fist, and he lets himself rock his hips in time, undulating his body slowly against his soft sheets as his hand drops away from his mouth. 

He can taste kiwi when he presses his lips together; he can smell the scent of his perfume rising from his wrists as his body flushes from the sun and from his steady rhythm. His hair is soft where it tickles his neck and shoulders; if he moves just right, it feels like light, brushing kisses on his skin. "Mmmmm," he breathes, checking his reflection in the mirror, his darkly-lined eyes soft but snapping with pleasure. 

He wanks slowly, gradually increasing his speed until he's panting, electricity jolting through his veins. He feels a familiar tension creep into his legs, and he knows he wanted it slow today, but the closer he gets, ankles arching in his boots, heels pressing into the wall, his body twisting in the sheets, he can't help it. He turns his head to look in the mirror again and moans at his reflection, his cheeks flushed as pink as his dripping cock, his hair flattened at the back and sweaty around his fringe, the black leather of his boots gleaming against the silver of his headboard. He wanks himself faster, faster, faster, pumping his hips in time with his fist, his heels clattering against the metal. 

"Ohhhhhh," he whines, high-pitched and desperate, biting at his lip as the sun slides across the sky, right into his eyes. He's so close, nearly there, heat rushing through his limbs and coiling at the base of his spine. He stops just as he's at the edge, squeezing himself and panting, squirming until the sun's out of his eyes and blanketing his body warmly again and he can see down the length of his body, where his cock's leaked wet onto his stomach and his fist, nearly as glossy as the leather of his boots. 

He takes the space of a few breaths to attempt to think, to ask himself what he wants and needs and what he wants to be looking at when he comes, but his mind is too frenzied to settle. He wails as his body takes over, locking his eyes on his pumping fist and his aching cock and his legs, his thighs tight and muscles corded above the boots. His other hand snakes up to cover his throat; he squeezes gently, just enough pressure to feel the bite of his blunt fingernails on the side of his neck. He clenches his jaw and his thighs and it's the feeling of his fingers wrapped around his pulsing cock and his throat and the sight of his stacked black heels crushed into the wall that makes him come so hard he sees stars in between the rainbow of light ricocheting off the glitter that's strayed down his face. 

Vince squeezes his eyes shut and lets his hands fall limply to either side. His legs are dangling loosely off the headboard; one heel's left a tiny, smudged indentation on the wall. He smiles in between pants, licking his lips. He's glowing and floaty and fully sated, feeling like the absolute picture of luxury, as glossy as thick crushed velvet paired with jewel toned satin and sapphires. 

His eyes spring open when he hears Howard nervously clearing his throat in the hallway outside. From his position upside down, Vince can see a maelstrom of brown: Howard's fine hair gone wild, his comfy Jazzercise clothes, his brown leather trainers. It's a sharp contrast to Howard's bright red skin. He's blushing from the top of his head all the way down to his slim, handsome legs. 

Vince's eyes go wide as his legs slide loudly down the wall, his heels scraping lines into the paint all the way. "Alright, Howard?" he squeaks, his voice as high pitched as he's ever heard it.

"I… erm… I. I. I realized I didn't have. I… realized I forgot. I, erm, that is to say. I got to the park and. Um. Have you seen my trumpet? The B flat?" Howard blurts.

Vince shakes his head, glitter falling to his sticky, sweaty sheets like stardust. It's not the easiest maneuver to perform in his position. "Uh uh."

"Um. Okay. Alright. Okay. Okay. Um. I'll, uh. I'll look downstairs. Maybe I left it in the.. bins. Thanks." Howard doesn't move. He's still red as a lobster.

"Are you sure you're alright, Howard?" Vince says. His neck is getting sore from holding his position and he'd really love to wipe his hand off, but he's frozen in place like a cornered rabbit, his heart beating just as fast.

"Yep. Great. Fine. Wonderful. Never better. I'll just nip down and look for my… uh…."

"Trumpet," Vince supplies helpfully.

"Yep, that's it," Howard returns, walking toward his room at a dazed sleepwalker's pace. "It's upstairs. I can tell. If you hear any strange noises, it's just me. Looking for my trumpet. Okay?"

"'Course, Howard," he responds.

When he hears the door to Howard's room close, he breathes a sigh of relief. When the noises of Howard… erm… looking for his trumpet start up, Vince turns his head and raises a brow at his reflection. His cock twitches. Well… twice in one afternoon, with an unexpected soundtrack? It's breaking the rules, but that has to be the definition of luxury.

**Author's Note:**

> Ten thumbs up if you spotted the references to oblong shapes and flannel sucking. I feel like I've heard Noel say "a classy wank for a classy man," but I couldn't tell you where (it's probably obvious and staring me in the face but damn if I can remember. If you do, drop me a line.). 
> 
> Yeah, I'm totally gonna write Howard's jazzy wank too.


End file.
